Free Walk a Black Wind by Michael Collins Page A

to make money on his property.”
    â€œIt looks like Mark Leland didn’t think so.”
    Sasser said, “Maybe Leland was a crook out for himself. Blackmail to get cut in. A guy like that could ruin a good project, and that could make some people awful mad.”
    â€œThat justifies murder, Sasser?” I said.
    â€œNo, but maybe it explains it,” Sasser said softly.
    They both sat like impassive Buddhas in the quiet office. Were they telling me something? Had Mark Leland been out to make a nuisance of himself, stir up doubts, in the hope of being bought off? It had happened before.
    I said, “Tell me about Joel Pender. He works for you?”
    â€œPender?” Crawford said, surprised. “He’s a minor employee, useful for small jobs, yes.”
    â€œHe’s worked for the city quite a while?”
    â€œEighteen years, yes. He’s useful, sort of an errand boy. He’s good at that kind of thing, reliable.”
    â€œWould he like to be part of your family?”
    â€œMy family? How the devil—”
    Sasser said, “He means Francesca and Frank Keefer. You know, Marty, Keefer was making a big play for Fran.”
    Crawford watched me. “You think Keefer, or Joel Pender, might have killed her? That’s crazy, no.”
    â€œKeefer was in New York when it happened, she’d dropped him just before she vanished. Pender had a fight with her. I’ll bet she could make people pretty mad, right?”
    â€œShe had a sharp tongue,” Crawford admitted. “But if Keefer wanted her, why would he—”
    â€œMen lose their heads over women. Or maybe make mistakes.”
    â€œThen find out, Fortune!” Crawford said.
    Sasser said, “What makes you think the motive has to be up here, Fortune? She was gone three months. A wild kid.”
    â€œShe was excited by something here before she left, and she’d been involved with Mark Leland and the housing project.”
    Martin Crawford leaned across his desk at me. “Listen, Fortune. We don’t know why Mark Leland was killed, but it’s clear that whatever the reason was it ended with Leland. Three months have passed with no trace of the killer. Leland had a partner, George Tabor. No one has touched Tabor. If Francesca or Tabor had known anything, do you think the killer would have waited three months, let them walk around to talk to almost anyone in that time? No. Do you think I’d cover anything that had led to the murder of my daughter? Do you?”
    I said, “I don’t know what you’d do.”
    They both just looked at me.

10.
    I checked into a motel not far from Black Mountain Lake. George Tabor was listed in the telephone book. I called from my room, late as it was, and he answered. I told him my name, and that I wanted to talk to him about Mark Leland. He had a flat, colorless voice.
    â€œThere’s nothing I know,” he said. “I told the police.”
    â€œIt’s two murders now, Tabor,” I said. “Your partner had talked to Francesca Crawford, now she’s dead. I want to know what he was doing with her.”
    â€œUsing her,” Tabor’s blank voice said. “The way he used everyone else.”
    â€œI still want to talk to you,” I said.
    He breathed slowly on the other end. “All right. Come over,” and he gave me the address.
    I got my old pistol from my bag. Tabor had been close to Mark Leland. I drove to the address. It was a large park of garden apartments in a new suburb. A place for professional men, junior executives on the way up, and middle-aged businessmen who were as high as they would go. Tabor lived in the second building, third floor. He met me at his door.
    He was a tall, thin man with the unsure eyes of a door-to-door salesman who wasn’t doing well. He walked me inside without speaking. The television set was on to a football game. A can of beer stood on a table beside an easy